Eyes
by alkin
Summary: Moiraine misses little. A collection of scenes written during tFoH. Moiraine/Asmodean


**Title**: Eyes

**Author**: alkin

**Pairing**: Asmodean/Moiraine

**Summary**: Moiraine misses little.

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><p><strong>AN** - I was re-reading tFoH and was surprised to remember how much I liked Asmodean. He was more interesting than all the other Forsaken put together.

This is more a series of vignettes than one story, but I think they fit together fairly well.

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><p><strong>Eyes<br>**

The Aes Sedai was watching him.

The man known as Jasin Natael did not let things like heat or cold touch him, but he could not shrug off the certainty that if he looked around, it would be to the sight of a pale, too-smooth face and cold, dark eyes. The Aes Sedai unsettled him. Once he'd dismissed her as nothing more than an ignorant child, but even in the few weeks he had been travelling with al'Thor and his _Aiel_, he had learned better. She might know almost nothing of the Power, but her eyes were sharp and her mind keener still. He did not like being the focus of her consideration. The _Aiel_ seemed to pay little mind to anything they could not stab – Great Lord, how they had changed! – but Moiraine was not that trusting.

Almost, he reached out to _saidin_. Almost. That cursed shield enfeebled him nearly to uselessness, but there were ways to kill with even the tiny amount of Power he could now wield. The thought was enough to make him chuckle. Even if al'Thor were not close enough to feel his spinning, he would be the man's first suspect, and dead shortly thereafter. He might be mortal once more, but he did not want to meet his end quite yet. Shifting in his saddle, Asmodean tried to shrug off the feeling of eyes at his back.

It was useless. He could feel them still, like the point of a knife.

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><p>8^8^8^8^8^8<p>

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><p>Asmodean had been ready for his blankets hours ago. The days were long, and spending the day atop a smelly, bad tempered animal was not much better than using his own legs, in his opinion. His muscles ached either way. Then there were the hours al'Thor demanded of his evening in teaching, and a fine dance it was trying to give the man enough that he thought he was learning while trying to hold back anything truly useful. He could not have taught half of what he knew in any case, not blocked as he was. Perhaps he ought to stop holding back, though. Asmodean had no doubt the Great Lord would triumph in the end, but watching al'Thor destroy the other Chosen would be a small pleasure while it lasted. Especially Lanfear. Sometimes he thought he truly would forsake the Great Lord and return to the Light, if he could see Lanfear die. Al'Thor might hold his leash, but she was the one who had put it there, the Great Lord scourge her!<p>

Trudging wearily though the darkness – there was no moon, and he could not channel a light, not outside – Asmodean found his tent and stooped to clamber inside, absurdly grateful for the rude shelter, and furious at himself for the feeling. Sleeping on silk or chained outside al'Thor's tent like a dog, he was still a prisoner. He knew well that, unwatched, these small gratitudes would become greater, and would end up imprisoning his mind as thoroughly as his body. Irritated, he pushed aside the tentflap and froze. A light lit the plain interior, and the tent was not empty.

Moiraine looked at him with a face that could have been sculpted from marble. He could not see the web that created that cool ball of light, but he knew it was her work. Outrage battled fear. What was she doing here, inside his tent, the one place he might reasonably expect privacy? Fear won. What _was _she doing here? Nothing seemed to have been disturbed, and there was nothing incriminating in his tent in any case, but the woman was not here to ask him to share a cup of sweetmelon wine. This time, he did embrace _saidin_, all that he could draw, though the taint made his stomach tighten, and did not release it.

"Master Natael." her voice was like bells. Briefly, irrelevantly, he wondered if she sang.

"Moiraine Sedai." he replied. Once, it would have curled his lip to call her so, but he was warier now. "May I aid you in some way?"

She took her time answering, eyes cool and assessing. Asmodean felt the chill of her channeling whisper over his skin. She was not strong, but he was sure she was doing more than just holding that lightweb. At least Compulsion would not touch him, wrapped in _saidin_. He did not think the knowledge of that art had survived, but he saw no reason to take foolish chances.

"This trek is arduous for some of us." she said finally. "Heat and distance take their toll. You seem to suffer less than some, but I thought I should be certain you are well."

Fear roiled in his belly, though Asmodean did not let it touch his face. _And I talk of foolish chances_. Ignoring heat and cold had become second nature to him long ago, but of course she would notice that his face was the only one other than her own that did not sweat in the brutal heat of the day. Even the Wise Ones seemed to have forgotten that trick, and they had greater need of it than most. Still, it was proof of nothing.

"It is kind of you to take notice of a humble bard, Aes Sedai." Asmodean replied smoothly. "I assure you, I am well." Unlike her, he did not have to hedge. He could simply lie. Anything to get her out of his tent.

Unfortunately, she seemed to have no desire to leave. She leaned back, settling on her heels, and gestured him in. Invited into his own tent. Asmodean pushed down his anger and obeyed. The tentflap swinging shut behind him felt like the closing of a cell door. He ducked around her lightweb to seat himself facing her. It irritated him, that web. It was basic politeness to ask permission to channel in another's dwelling. Or tent. He wondered what she would do if he pinched it out. You could do that, with some webs, if you knew where to squeeze them. Of course there were very few webs that could be altered by the action of mere human hands, fewer still that wouldn't give you a shock or a burn for trying, but that one could. He doubted _that_ knowledge remained, and amused himself with the thought of her expression.

"I travelled for a time with a bard." she said, almost musingly, as though they were friends engaging in idle talk. Her eyes never left his face "He could tell many remarkable stories. The Lord Dragon must enjoy your own recitals."

Asmodean managed to summon a smile, though he knew it was a brittle thing. He had never seen al'Thor enjoy anything, least of all the music Asmodean played for him, music that hadn't been heard in an Age. Grim triumph when he mastered some childishly simple weave was as warm as the man got, unless something provoked him to fury. A pity none of those Maidens had thought to put themselves in his bed; it was the least they could do, for making sure no other woman could come near.

"I strive to serve as best I can." was his response, dry with something that was almost truth. What was the woman's game here? "It is a great honour to play for the Lord Dragon."

"Not one you expected, I am sure." she murmured. A blue stone on a chain was cradled in her hands, the chain twined delicately around her slim fingers. It occurred to him to wonder if it was a _ter'angreal, _and if so, what it might do_._ Reading _ter'angreal_ was not one of his talents; even if he stole the trinket, it was unlikely he could work out its function. But it was not _cuendillar_. He ought to be able to put it beyond her use, if necessary.

He opened his hands, the picture of innocence. "Who could ever predict such a thing? But opportunities must be seized, must they not, Moiraine Sedai, especially when they may never come again?"

Surprisingly, that made her drop her eyes. What _was_ she taking from this pretence of a conversation?

"Perhaps you are right, Master Natael." And then she was rising gracefully, face smooth once more. "Perhaps." Standing while he sat, she looked down on him, the first time he had seen her thus, but he did not let the change intimidate him. He met her gaze squarely, and refused to let his unease show through. Something flickered in her eyes. "It may be that in these days caution must be set aside. Or it may be that we must be more cautious than ever. I bid you good rest, Master Natael." And taking her lightweb, she left, with barely a rustle of fabric to mark her passage. Asmodean stared at the spot where she had stood, puzzled, more frightened than he liked to admit to himself. He did not know why the Aes Sedai had been in his tent, or what her words meant, save that he more than suspected they contained a veiled – or not-so-veiled – threat.

_I may have to kill her, whatever the risk_, he thought as he stretched out on his bedroll. _If she has worked out the truth_. It would not be easy, but it might prove necessary. Tiredness dragged at his eyelids, pulling him towards sleep despite his disquiet. Death might be a certainty now, but Asmodean would put that day off for as long as possible. _Whatever it takes_.

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><p>8^8^8^8^8^8<p>

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><p>In the days that followed, however, revelation did not come. The Aes Sedai still watched him, cool and calculating, but he was not the only target of her scrutiny, and Asmodean let himself relax. No one came to his tent in the night to stake him out as a darkfriend. No one stood up to publicly cry his crimes before all. Al'Thor still needed his teaching – after the incident with the gateway, Asmodean no longer dared hold back – and that protected him, to a point. He was not safe, but he was as close to it as he was ever likely to be.<p>

It was a relief to be back in a city. This world might not have piped water, and might still think riding beasts a fast way to travel, but a fireplace and a real bed were a drastic improvement over a mat laid on lumpy ground. This night, however, Asmodean knew he would sleep poorly. Al'Thor's reaction to hearing of the queen Rahvin had killed had been unexpected and ferocious. Usually the man turned to ice when he heard of deaths, not fire. Still, he had pleaded for the opportunity to go with al'Thor to Caemlyn tomorrow, even knowing it was a gamble at best. If al'Thor was the victor, having fought beside him would make him appear loyal. He did not think Rahvin would manage to kill al'Thor, but if he did, Lanfear would destroy him as soon as she heard. And possibly Asmodean too, for failing to teach him better. So al'Thor _had_ to win tomorrow, which meant Asmodean, pathetically weak as he was, had to do what he could to tip the battle in his favour. The thought turned his legs to jelly. He was not the Spider, to hide at the first hint of danger, but neither was he Sammael, to spearhead the charge.

He had been given a servant's room, which rankled. Cairhein did not think well of bards, even the court-bard to the Dragon Reborn. But it had walls and a door, which his previous accommodation had not. A thread of Fire made hot flames bloom in the small fireplace, and others lit the candles dotted around the room. Sitting on the bed, Asmodean strummed idly on his harp, letting his fingers shape his anxiety into shivering, panicked trills and low, mournful chords. He expected al'Thor to survive tomorrow, though it would have to be more luck than skill. He was much less certain about himself.

He was startled when the door opened unannounced, and more surprised still to see that it was the Aes Sedai, Moiraine, who stood there. Her expression was as remote and icy as he had ever seen. _Ah_, he thought. So she did know. And she feared what he might do on the morrow. Smiling sardonically, he rose and bowed her into the small room. She glided over to the only chair, a rickety, wobbly thing, though she did not sit. A chill ghosted over his skin, and the door swung gently shut. So.

He did not ask her leave to sit down and begin his playing again, a small discourtesy in repayment for her previous rudeness, though she realised neither. He found himself teasing a pleasant, cheerful tune from his strings, its counterpoint holding the subtlest hint of mockery. He did not look at her. Let her speak if she wanted his attention.

It was a long time until she did. The harp and the crackling of the flames in the fireplace were the only sounds the small room for several minutes. He realised he had let his music grow mournful again, and cursed himself for laying his feelings so plain. As if to mock him, his fingers started to pluck sharp, angry notes before he could control himself, and return to something meaninglessly bland. _Circles in the Cornfield_ was one of the most insipid pieces ever composed for the harp, in his opinion. Let her seek meaning in _that_.

"Tomorrow will be a dangerous day." she said at last, in a tone that might as well be talking about the weather. "For you. Bards sing of battles more than they fight in them."

He couldn't stop his lips from quirking in a smile. "I freely admit that I prefer the harp to the sword, Moiraine Sedai. But as you said once before, these are not times to be cautious."

She acknowledged the barb with a wry twist of her lips, more expression than he could ever remember seeing from her. "Cautious enough, I hope." she replied in that soft, ringing voice. "It would be ill if the day ended with the Lord Dragon less a bard."

_He will win_, Asmodean translated. _See that you are on the winning side, too_.

"How else can the ballad of the Dragon Reborn be composed, if his bard is not beside him?" Asmodean replied, letting his fingers dance out a stirring, martial march. "It may be that I see many battles." _I fight on his side. I am loyal_. Well, it was not far from being true. The Great Lord had no mercy, and Asmodean no wish to die before he must.

Her silence seemed more pensive, now, and it stretched out between them, though not uncomfortably. Asmodean tried to draw soothing notes from his harp. The Aes Sedai was here for a reason, but it was unlike her not to speak of it; she used hints and implication rather than direct speech, certainly, but this reserve was uncharacteristic. Still, it was oddly pleasant to sit in the company of one who knew who he was. He might die tomorrow, but for these few moments, he could be himself again.

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><p>8^8^8^8^8^8<p>

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><p>The last thing he would have expected is what actually occurred. Subtle, mazelike conversation had given way to something very like amity. Asmodean continued to play, less guarded now, and his melodies had picked up an edge, perhaps irony, perhaps pride. Moiraine had moved to sit on the bed beside him, disdaining the chair, which he thought wise. They were speaking now of light things, wry observations of the Aiel, gentle mockery of the Tairen nobles. The Aes Sedai missed little, and her taciturn manner hid a surprisingly sharp wit. It was in a natural, comfortable lull in their conversation that he felt her hand on his arm, and realised with a shock what this evening had really been leading to. But <em>him<em>? He had assumed that if she engaged in bedplay at all – and that seemed doubtful – it was with the Warder, Lan.

He could not keep the surprise from his features, nor hide the fact that his fingers had halted entirely on the strings. But he did not shrug off her hand, and he even found himself regretting that he had nowhere better than this narrow, hard bed to take her to. Her eyes reflected his own uncertainty, however, and seeing that, his doubts faded. He touched her hand with his own, and found himself glad that on this night of all nights he would not be alone.

They exchanged no more words. He could imagine nothing more awkward than the murmuring of endearments and names, both false, at this moment, and was profoundly glad when his touch drew wordless murmurs instead of speech. Her skin was flawless, and so pale that it seemed every touch left red, blushing fingermarks. She seemed surprised at her own pleasure, too, and in the rare moments he had thought to spare, he wondered if she had done this many times before, or even at all. It should be memorable, he decided, if that was so, and set his hands and mouth to exploring all of her, to seeking out her delight.

Even after their completion he could not seem to untangle their bodies, both bare and slicked with sweat and worse than sweat. But nor could he muster much protest when she finally stirred and sat up, pulling herself out of his arms. He was sleepy and sated. He felt a pang of regret watching her dress – it would have been pleasant to wake up to her, to softness and warmth – but no surprise. She did not seem the type for lazy mornings. She did kiss him, once, a brush of soft lips against his mouth, before leaving, looking no more rumpled than when she had entered. He smiled and closed his eyes. Sleep came in heartbeats.

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><p>His first reaction, on hearing of what had transpired at the docks, on hearing that both Lanfear and Moiraine were dead, was relief. Relief that Lanfear was dead, and he yet living.<p>

The second was dismay. No one now lived who could see, and unweave, the shield that blocked him. She had said it would unravel, but Asmodean had long since stopped believing that.

The third feeling was slower in coming, and longer still in being understood. He realised eventually that the quiver in his gut was fear, a fear that had been strangely absent when he had woken that morning. Somehow, the thought that Moiraine would be fighting beside them in Caemlyn had been a comfort. Foolish, of course. For all her wisdom, against Rahvin she was as ignorant as a child.

Foolish. And yet, it would not fade.

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><p><em>fin<em>


End file.
